


always a good time

by Sevidri



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Fighting, Flirting, M/M, Time Travel, pre Enemies to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23086870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevidri/pseuds/Sevidri
Summary: “You know, this really isn’t fair,” the stranger says, sounding actually apologetic, like this is some sort of sparring match, “I know all your moves and you don’t know any of mine.”“Who are you?”
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 35
Kudos: 326





	always a good time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yeswayappianway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeswayappianway/gifts).



> Many thanks to yeswayappianway and frecklebomb for beta-reading, cheerleading and prompt provision <3

There isn’t any noise, not the slightest sound to indicate the presence of another person in the room with him, but there’s a displacement of air, a warm body where there was nothing only a moment before.

“I told them not to send any backup,” Slade says without turning around, his eye still trained on his target. The world always looks different through a sniper-scope, simpler, more clear, and Slade isn’t willing to give up the serenity of it just yet. “I don’t do teamwork, so fuck off.”

“Rude,” the voice behind him says, and it sounds far more cheerful than he expected. Not young, but certainly not the gruff, deep tones he’s used to hearing from his colleagues. People in his line of work tend to be at least a little world-weary. A rookie, then. Great.

“I’m not here to help you anyway,” the voice continues and there are footsteps now, coming closer. With a sigh, Slade puts down the rifle and turns. Then blinks.

In front of him is a young man with floppy black hair, wearing an incredibly form-fitting black and blue costume and a mask. Even with half his face hidden, it’s easy to see how attractive he is, with delicate bone structure but a strong jawline. His lips are quirked up a bit lopsided, like he’s amused, and he looks not at all intimidated by Slade in his mask and body armour.

“Why are you here, then?” Slade asks, and he isn’t sure why it matters to him. There’s a stranger in his sniper’s nest. The far more pressing issue should be how he got there and how Slade’s going to dump his body without drawing any attention.

“Ah, you don’t know me,” the stranger says. He doesn’t sound particularly broken up about it, but there’s a note of surprise in his voice, and Slade can see him tense up slightly, as if preparing himself for a fight. The thought makes something inside Slade’s stomach tighten, his fingers itching to reach for his sword, even if it’s bound to be a relatively uninteresting fight. He’s not even sure the guy is wearing armor, and he doesn’t seem to have any weapons except for the two batons peeking out over his shoulders.

“Are you going to get in my way?” Slade asks, because that’s the most immediate concern. It doesn’t matter who the intruder is, doesn’t matter that he’s far too pretty to be in a dump like this. Slade has a job to do.

Instead of answering, the stranger tilts his head to the side and lets his eyes wander down Slade’s body. He doesn’t linger on the sword or the grenades at Slade’s belt, so he probably had some idea who he’s dealing with before popping in here. 

“Usually, I would,” the guy finally says, almost leisurely, like he doesn’t realize Slade’s going to kill him, no matter how pretty he might be. “But I’m not supposed to be here, so...maybe not.”

Slade unsheathes his sword in one quick, fluid motion. “You better decide, before I decide for you.”

Instead of backing off, the intruder smirks at him. His body falls into a loose fighting stance, weight perfectly distributed so he can easily move in any direction at the slightest hint of aggression. 

“Guess I’ve decided then,” he challenges, pulling down one of the batons like he honestly thinks it’s going to stand a chance against Slade’s blade. He’s cocky, but in a playful sort of way rather than something more insulting, and for a moment Slade almost regrets having to kill him. 

He’s a professional though, so he doesn’t linger on the feeling for too long. Instead he thrusts his sword towards his opponent’s chest, just slightly off center, giving him just enough room to dodge to the right. Of course, dodging the first blow won’t do him much good, will only make him abandon his carefully balanced stance. The second strike is the one that will take him down.

Slade is almost disappointed when the stranger falls for it, moving to the right just like Slade had predicted. Except he doesn’t just step out of the way but drops down to the floor and rolls clear out of range of Slade’s sword. He doesn’t waste any time staying down either, but somehow ends up back on his feet in the same movement, pulling the second baton from its holster to shift into a more offensive stance.

“Come on. You didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did you?” he teases, and he sounds like he’s genuinely enjoying himself, like his idea of fun somehow includes trained mercenaries attempting to skewer him with a sword. Slade is starting to feel the same.

“My mistake,” he offers, moving into a different stance opposite the stranger, something a bit more defensive, a bit more cautious. Clearly brute force and simple tricks won’t do. “Won’t happen a second time.”

The stranger clicks his tongue, a mocking sound, but the smirk on his face is still firmly in place. “Promises, promises.”

It’s clear he’s goading Slade and has no intention of attacking first, but Slade finds that he doesn’t much mind. He waits a moment longer, just to see if his opponent has a tell, a flicker of his eyes maybe, or a twitch of his muscles to indicate how he’s likely to move, but there’s nothing.

Slade brings down his sword in a wide arc, giving the stranger no room to dodge backwards, and so he doesn’t. Instead he brings both his batons up in a crossguard to block Slade’s blow. 

It’s a dumb move against someone with Slade’s strength and again Slade feels a frisson of regret at having to end this so soon. Still, he doesn’t pull the blow, just braces for the moment his opponent realizes he can’t hold the block, the moment the sword meets soft flesh instead of unforgiving metal. 

But before Slade’s sword can get lodged in the crossguard properly, before he can start applying more pressure, can watch his opponent’s eyes widen as he realizes his mistake, the stranger lowers one of his batons, turning Slade’s sword to the side sharply. The sudden lack of resistance almost makes Slade lose his balance. As it is, he has to take a step forward to catch the momentum, and his opponent doesn’t waste the opening.

He must know about Slade, must know that it takes more than a simple kick or even a hit from his batons to do any damage, because he doesn’t try anything remotely that conventional. Instead he jumps up to plant both his feet against Slade’s side and pushes off.

It doesn’t really do any damage either, but it makes Slade stumble back a few more steps and puts some distance between them. It also gives his opponent a good opening for a killing blow while Slade is off balance, but he doesn’t take it. 

“You know, this really isn’t fair,” the stranger says, sounding actually apologetic, like this is some sort of sparring match, “I know all your moves and you don’t know any of mine.”

“Who are you?” Slade says, and much to his surprise he doesn’t sound angry. He _isn’t_ angry, not like he should be. He feels tense all over, but in a good way, more excitement than rage, the thrill of a good fight rather than the antagonism of a genuine confrontation.

“Someone you haven’t met yet,” the stranger shoots back, then hesitates for a moment. “Call me Nightwing.”

Slade raises an eyebrow, even though the mask makes it all but useless. “You some sort of hero?” He knows there are some masked heroes out there of course. Vigilantes, like that arrow guy up in Star City or the Bat of Gotham. The Justice League too, with Superman and Wonder Woman and all kinds of other do-gooders that Slade tends to steer clear of. He hadn’t been aware San Francisco had any masks though. 

Nightwing grins back at him, flipping one of his batons casually. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” 

“You got a real name as well?” Slade asks, and it’s not like he thinks he’ll get it, but nothing else in this confrontation has gone according to plan, so he might as well ask.

Nightwing laughs at that, loud and happy and somehow not at all out of place in the middle of their battle. “Sure, but you’re gonna have to earn that,” he challenges, and Slade finds that there’s nothing he’d rather do.

Somehow, somewhere between the skillful redirection and the kick to his side, Slade has lost all desire to kill his opponent. He still wants to beat him, wants to knock the batons from his hands and pin him to the floor with Slade’s sword at his neck, but actually ending his life would be a shame. 

“Careful what you wish for,” Slade shoots back and charges at Nightwing. He’s more cautious this time, makes sure not to overcommit and leave an opening, but that makes his blow less powerful, gives Nightwing the opportunity to block with his batons instead of just dodging out of the way.

It earns Slade a baton blow to the shoulder, then another to his upper thigh, and it doesn’t even hurt, not with the armor he’s wearing, but it’s alarming nonetheless. Makes it far too obvious that Slade is _losing_ , would be in deep trouble if Nightwing actually wanted to kill him. 

He’s never been beaten before. He’s good at what he does, one of the best in the business, and ever since he got his enhancements he’s been living with the near certainty that nothing short of a sun-powered alien or an Amazonian warrior could really hurt him. Angry ex-wives notwithstanding.

But this kid seems to be able to, if only he wanted to. Even worse, Slade is pretty sure he’s not even a meta. Nightwing isn’t as strong as him, and Slade is faster too, but with the way he fights it doesn’t even matter. It’s like he knows what Slade is going to do before he does it, knows just how Slade’s going to move and how to best avoid him.

It more than makes up for the difference in strength, in speed. It should be frustrating, maybe even frightening if Slade had enough self-preservation left for fear. Instead it’s exhilarating. 

“Who _are_ you?” Slade says when they’re at another standstill, staring at each from across the room. There’s sweat on Nightwing’s brow now, making strands of his hair stick messily to his forehead, and it somehow only makes him even more attractive. His skin is flushed and Slade can see his chest moving from how hard he’s breathing, and Slade can’t remember the last time he’s wanted anyone this much.

It’s like a physical pull inside his chest, makes him want to push and see if he can make Nightwing flush even more, if exhaustion will eventually make him sloppy or if he’s more like a wild animal, fighting even harder when he can feel the snare pulling tighter. 

Slade wants to find out with a fervor that takes him by surprise. He wants to feel all that liquid grace underneath his hands, wants to know if he fucks with as much enthusiasm as he fights, wants to see if he’ll let Slade press him down on the musty floor of the abandoned apartment and take him apart.

Or maybe Slade is the one who wants to be taken apart, who would be all too willing to let Nightwing press him down on the floor—if he could figure out a way to keep Slade there.

He can feel his own heart beating in his chest and it’s only partially due to the adrenaline from their fight. He hasn’t felt this alive in a long time. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll meet eventually,” Nightwing responds, and this time Slade is paying more attention, catches what he’s actually saying, lets the pieces fall into place.

“You’re from the future,” he says. “My future.”

Nightwing snorts. “Don’t be so possessive, it hardly belongs to you,” he jokes, but Slade’s too caught up on the implications.

“In the future, we— we fight?” he asks, and it’s not what he means, but it’s simpler, less revealing. 

“Just whenever I get in your way,” Nightwing replies, and his smirk softens a bit, just for a moment, before it’s back in full force. “We’re not usually so evenly matched,” he continues, and Slade can’t quite believe that he would ever consider this fight evenly matched, not when Slade is the only one who’s even gotten hit.

“My target got away because of you,” Slade says, and he’s not even sure, hasn’t bothered to check properly, but his window of opportunity hadn’t been particularly large to begin with and he’s not about to turn his back on Nightwing for a simple assassination job.

Nightwing shrugs. “Better get used to it,” he teases and Slade feels the significance of that hit somewhere deep in his stomach.

“I’m gonna make you pay for that,” he promises, his voice coming out low and huskier than he had anticipated.

Nightwing just smirks at him and twirls one of his batons, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Better hurry up, I doubt I’ll be here much longer.”

Slade pauses at that. “Someone back home who misses you?” he asks, not bothering to hide his curiosity. 

Nightwing grimaces. “My, uh, boss doesn’t like time travel. Nothing good ever comes of messing up the time stream,” he tags on, like he’s quoting someone. 

“In that case, let’s end this.” Slade takes another swing at him, perfectly confident that Nightwing’s going to do something ridiculous to get out of the way just in time. Slade’s pretty sure he’s never seen anyone else move like this. His awareness of his environment and the quick switch between fighting styles reminds him of his one and only fight against Batman, down by one of Gotham’s shipyards, but there’s an ease to Nightwing’s movements that even the Bat couldn’t match.

Nightwing doesn’t dodge to the side. Instead he uses the wall behind him as springboard to launch himself up in the air and over Slade’s sword, directly into Slade’s body. A baton hits Slade in the side and a moment later he almost drops his sword as electricity runs through his entire body.

“Oh, wow, that—” Nightwing stutters, sounding as surprised as Slade feels. “Your suit’s not insulated, that’s— But usually you— Huh.” He sounds flabbergasted, and doesn’t even take advantage of the clear opening before Slade manages to get his body back under control.

Insulating the suit sounds like a good idea. Even if Slade doesn’t usually face off against enemies that use electricity, it’s clearly a weak spot. He tightens his grip on his sword. “That won’t happen a second time either,” he promises, and he fully intends to keep it. He’s been far too careless about the batons before. 

Nightwing loses the startled look, the same casual grace from before returning to his stance, but then he grimaces, like he’s smelling something unpleasant. “Guess not,” he says, sounding apologetic, and before Slade can ask him what’s going on he’s gone.

Slade blinks. He looks around the empty room around him, but there’s nothing. If it weren’t for the gouges that his sword had left in the wall, it might as well have been a dream.

He’s still ready for a fight, his body filled with adrenaline, but his prefered outlet isn’t there anymore. He spares a look out the window, but it only confirms what he already suspected. His target is long gone.

Slade can’t quite find it in him to regret that. He resheathes his sword and gathers up his rifle, his body still buzzing from the fight. 

For a moment he considers putting out some feelers, trying to see if one of his contacts has heard anything about a hero called Nightwing, but in the end he discards the thought.

They’ll meet soon enough, Nightwing had seemed sure of that. For the first time in a while, Slade actually finds himself looking forward to something.


End file.
